What was Made for Children
by Lear's Fool
Summary: Cinderella. It's almost funny in a way, how they've made the name sound as if it were singular. There were in fact two girls, twin sisters, from whom the name was derived. Formely titled Image of Perfection, or Happily Ever After
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

_Cinderella_. Its almost funny in a way, how they've made the name sound as if it were singular. As if there was _one _person who matched the entire description of the legend that has become Cinderella. Very few are aware that there were in fact _two _girls, twin sisters, from whom the name was originated. Celene and Elle. Elle and Celene. Those were their names. And I was their step-sister. I think the story that they tell now claims that I was evil, part of Cinderella's terrible childhood. I don't suppose I mind, and besides, no one would believe me now if I said that I was actually the original stepsister, or at least one of them.

But this isn't my story. I suppose that, truly, its Elle's. I was much closer to her than I ever was to Celene, and still am. She has told me the story over and over again, and every time I hear it, I can't help but realize that there are only a select few of us who know the truth about the fairy tale, eveyone else has been told a lie. Most life stories are only known by those who witnessed them, but hers, _ours_, is known incorrectly by the whole world. When I say ours, I suppose I am talking about the seven or eight of us that played a part in the butchered version of the story that you know today. Events in our lives wove together in those few months like silk threads in a loom, to create the new beginnings of the rest of our lives. After the masque ball and the events that followed it, everything had changed, especially for Celene and Elle. Oh, and of course Jack. Yes, his life was altered unbelievably as well.

Glancing at the present, not all of our lives ended with a happily ever after, as the fairy tale now does. Some of us would never be the same, some of us would never wish to go back. As I look at the past now, I wonder what my life would have turned out like if things had just continued to go as all of us had thought they would, as everyone had unwittingly pre-planned in their minds. I also wonder about Cinderella, and the real, live person that she has become in the imaginations of dreaming children. I wonder if that person resembles Celene more than Elle, or in reverse. The description of the fairy-tale heroine is divided up between the sisters; Celene's beauty, dream-like ambition, and hidden determination, Elle's smoothe grace, steadiness, and strangled hope. But there characteristics of them both that were left out of the legend, because, after all, fairy tales were meant for children. And it's never a good idea to ruin the fanciful imagination of a child with reality, now, is it?

* * *

**This is just the prologue, I know it is a bit short. This is just an idea I've had rolling around in my mind for a little while. If you think it sounds interesting, please review and tell me if you think I should continue writing this or not. Well, hopefully it turned out okay, as a good start. I was hoping the idea was original, of two people really being Cinderella, I don't think its been done before. Please review!**

**-Locket **


	2. Threads

**Threads**

The mid-morning sun outside was mild, but the room was so dark without it that the light blared through the window as a star does in the ebony sky of midnight; brightly and beautifully. The result was an excessively lit bedroom; small and simple, with a tiny dusty mirror hanging on one of its four walls, and a small, thinly blanketed bed by the opposite wall. There was a chest of clothing pressed against the bed, and a screen in the corner next to the mirror. Though it was rather obvious that the bedroom hadn't been dusted in a fair amount of weeks, the room was otherwise kept in a reasonably good order. The bed was made, the mirror was hanging straight, and the chest of clothing was open so that the neat stack of sensible work dresses was visible.

The kitchen at the bottom of the spiral staircase was even more brightly lit by the numerous windows on the walls. It was much less modest throughout the rest of the house than it was in the tiny bedroom, with long decorated hallways, walls covered by expensive looking paintings, and ceilings dressed with crystal chandeliers. From the perspective of anyone outside the house, one wouldn't expect the extravagance that was beyond the opening doors. But, then, it was a well-known fact at this time that not all things are what they appear to be.

The kitchen was not empty. Seated at one of the chairs by the windows was a girl, and one glance at her could tell you that the girl was the unmistakable owner of the small, tidy bedroom on the second floor. She was young, no older than sixteen, and dressed in one of the simple servant's dresses that had been in the chest. She was clean and attractive, short of both beautiful and repulsive, with a slightly long oval face and soft light skin. Her mouth was pleasantly colored but surprisingly tiny, giving the impression of a girl who said all that she needed to say, without using too many words in the process. The cheekbones underneath her small, alert, short but darkly lashed crystal blue eyes were subtly sharp. But there were two things remarkable about her appearance. The first was her hair; the long, thick braid that brushed the floor's surface when she walked, with a color that would have been black had it not been for the odd dark red tinge to it. The second was her posture. It was much easier to see when she was walking than when she was sitting down at a chair, but her back was dead on straight, and gracefully so. Her shoulders were well set, not slumped forward or pushed too far back, giving her a natural poise that was noticeably perfect. Were she to stand from her chair and walk, her smooth step and lightness of foot would have been apparent also; she hardly made a sound when she moved.

She sat there, a pale, expensive looking fabric in her lap, and a sewing needle poking through it. She was sewing two of the fabric squares together when suddenly the door across from her chair burst open. She didn't shriek in shock, but simply jumped a bit in her chair as she looked up to see a panicked looking young man standing in the doorway, nearly out of breath.

The girl smiled a bit as she saw him, then turned her head back down to her work. It was hard to tell if the smile was a smirk or not. "Stop by again, Jack?" she said. The question was obviously a jest from her tone of voice, so the boy didn't waste the little breath he had in answering it. Instead, he shut the door quickly and leaned his back against it, panting from running.

The girl raised her eyebrows. "If they were close behind you, than you can leave now. The last thing I need is Roberta finding out that the king's men were here, or finding out that _you _were here again."

Jack glanced around the room, his eyes stopping at each of the doors. "Oh, so she's not here then?"

"_Jack_,"

Having regained more of his air, he laughed a bit. "Relax Elle, they were half a mile behind me," he said as he walked over to the table and took the chair across from her, leaning his head back in exhaustion.

He looked the age counterpart of Elle physically, but something about his expressions always gave him a slightly untamed, childishly defiant manner. She and he were clearly not on the same level of society; his clothing was very pricey looking and well suited to his averaged-muscled and slightly wiry structure. It wasn't entirely clean; his breeches were splattered with mud, most likely from the running, and there was a tear at the hem of the leg that looked very recently made. His eyes were a blend of green, gray and blue, and always seemed to shift endlessly in and out of the three colors. With tan, smooth skin that was his best feature, a semi-strong chin, and a perfect nose (that could have been considered a bit feminine), Jack could have passed for the prince that he was. But that naive defiance of his kept him from the level of the prince; because of it, he looked unfit for the extravagance of his attire, and much more fit for the torn hem of his breeches.

Elle shook her head and looked back down at her needle and thread. "So who, exactly, are you running from now?"

Jack reached for her water glass on the table and took a small sip before sighing and rolling his eyes. "Do you really have to ask me that? How many times have I told you not to ask me that?"

"How many times have I told you that I'm not going to listen when you ask me that? You don't have to do everything everyone at that palace says."

"Well, they're led by my father. What am I supposed to do?"

"Tell him no."

"He's my father."

Elle put down her work and stared at him straight on. "By that, do you mean that he's your father or that he's the king?"

Jack slammed his drinking glass down on the table, unsure whether to be more frustrated than guilty, or in reverse. But these types of conversations with Elle were becoming quite frequent, so naturally, he chose frustration. "Elle, if you keep doing this, than you're going to have to come up with different arguments. This is about the fourth time you've asked me that."

One side of Elle's mouth turned up a bit, making her mouth seem substantially larger than it was when she frowned. "Actually Jack, it's the fifth time I have asked you that, and the fifth time that you've denied me an answer. So, if you don't answer it soon, the next time you come around here from a knight's chase, I will have to ask it a sixth time."

Jack stared at her quizzically, but Elle didn't miss the sudden flash of panic in his eyes. Jack had always hated being under her scrutiny. As much as he cared about her, he wished that she was less observant when it came to people that she knew as well as him. "I gave you an answer the first time you asked!"

"If I remember correctly you stared at me open-mouthed for a second or two, and then mumbled something under your breath about being hungry, and then went to get a slice of ham."

Jack groaned, very near to anger now. "Damnit, do you have to remember everything?"

"When it comes to you, yes. You'd be dead by now if I didn't. Now answer my question."

She stared long and hard at him, and he began to stare long and hard at the table. She observed him carefully, and was surprised to see that something was wrong with him. He _was _thinking about the question, tough. It was hurting him, but Elle knew Jack well enough to know that he had thought about it previously. He drummed his fingers on the table softly, and realized that there was no way around answering his best friend.

Slowly, without taking his eyes off the table, he began to speak with a dark, inward undertone that suddenly made Elle almost sorry she had ever asked. "I guess it is because he's my king, and my blood. I'm not so sure now if 'father' is the word I would use to describe him."

Elle's small blue eyes widened, and she immediately turned them down so he could not see them. She hadn't completely been expecting this. There was a pause as she tried to cover this up and turn her head back to Jack, but her voice came out timid and quiet.

"What did he make you do?" she asked him cautiously, almost afraid to know. "Was it...that bad?" Her fear was needless, because Jack wasn't going to tell her.

"You know Elle, I really hate it when you do this." he said shortly, making her feel even more unsettled. He got up abruptly and walked over to the window, putting his hands on the sill and looking out at the considerably brighter sun.

Elle once again tried to steady herself. "Jack..." she tried to go on, but he wouldn't let her.

"Elle, you of all people know how things are when it comes to your flesh and blood!" he shouted, almost desperate for her to understand, while still being furious with her. "Roberta hates you, you know that, and yet you let her order you around as if she owns you! How can you badger me about forgetting that father isn't only my king, when you treat Roberta as if she _is _your queen! What are you sewing now? Because something tells me that that fabric is a bit too expensive to be coming out of your collection of scraps." he stopped and inhaled breath to calm himself down. "Elle, you're stronger than that. I've known you my whole life, I know that. But you and I; we're in the same boat here. Even though she's only your stepmother, you still can't disobey her. And even though he doesn't feel like a father," he paused, looking at her straight in the eye, begging her to understand. "-he _is _my family."

Elle was silent. Throughout Jack's whole speech, it was clear to him that she had been stung by the first part. She wasn't looking at him anymore, but down at her lap. But her posture was still as steady as ever, and her face was forced into a calmer stage. Her eyes were glazed over with the thinnest layer of water, but this was the only obvious sign of hurt. Elle had always been better with self-control than Jack.

"You're wrong, Jack," she said suddenly, her voice barely trembling. "We're not in the same boat," she looked back up at him, the layer of water making her unmoving eyes bright. For a moment, Jack was afraid he had made her cry. But he had never seen Elle cry, and he wasn't going to any time soon.

"You have two flaws, Jack, I have one, and we both share mine." she continued, staring at him head on and losing her voice's slight shake. "I obey the rules that are given to me, and you run from them before you do."

Jack had no answer to that.

So he sighed in surrender, and asked Elle for some ale.

She nodded. "Help yourself. I think Angela snuck a bottle past her mother, it's probably in the back of the cupboard."

"Thanks." he said, opening the cupboard. "So, where is Roberta anyway?"

"She's out at the marketplace with Lisabeth and Angela. Could you pour me a glass?"

"Oh, sure," he said as he slammed the bottle on the table. "What are they buying?"

Elle shrugged and rolled her eyes slightly as she continued with her needle. "I believe the original intention was for new shoes, but they'll end up getting lost in the gowns and cheek coloring and will come back with two men behind them, dragging and carrying everything they bought."

Jack turned raised an eyebrow, a trick that Elle had never bothered to learn. "Just two men?" he said, laughing. "Nah, more like four."

Elle suddenly raised her own two eyebrows challengingly, and turned one corner of her mouth up. "You want to put a wager on that?"

Jack stood straight up. "How much?" he asked excitedly, almost in the fashion of an eight-year-old rascal.

"Five breielles."

"Done." He slammed her glass of ale in front of her. Jack had a tendency to slam whatever he set down.

They rose their glasses, clinked, and drank. Elle watched her best friend in silence, thanking the Gods that everything was now back to the usual.

Jack licked the ale off his lips. "So, how is the step-monster?"

Elle gave him a sharp glance for calling Roberta that, but didn't bother to chide him. "She's just fine, I suppose. Angela's the same as usual also-" (Jack snorted at this, knowing very well how Angela usually was) "-but Lisabeth, she's been acting rather odd lately."

"Lisabeth?" Jack chuckled. "Odd? She's probably the closest thing to normal living in this house."

Elle rolled her eyes at Jack's comment, but continued on. "Oh, she's been acting odd, alright. I've seen her sneaking food up to her bedroom, and she always seems to be watching me, suspicious and nervous. I think she's hiding something."

"What in hellfire could that girl possibly want to hide? And from you, of all people?" he asked. When he realized that Elle was in her own thought, and wasn't going to answer him, he shrugged and took another sip of ale.

After the two were comfortably quiet for a while, Jack seemed to remember one more member of the family whom he hadn't previously asked about. "And what about Cinderash? Is she here?"

Before Elle could scold him for the nickname, a reply to the question came from a third mouth. "Actually, she is, and even within earshot of you."

The two of them spun around in their chairs to see Celene Glasswen through the open door to the dining room walking over to them. She was filthy with soot, and carrying a basket of clothing, undoubtedly laundry. When she reached the doorway, she gave Jack a sour stare.

"I suggest you be a little nicer, Jack," she said coolly and grouchily. "If you don't want me to tell Roberta that you were here."

Celene's threat would have scared the prince a bit, had he not heard it at least nine times before in the past two months alone. Instead, he nodded politely at her. "Pleasure to see you, Celene." he said, trying and failing to keep the laughter out of his voice. This didn't go unnoticed by Celene, who stopped walking and glared at him ferociously.

"Don't you dare tell her about this, Celene." Elle said, with a suddenly sharp and commanding tone in her voice

Celene snorted (somehow managing not to sound at all masculine), but it was obvious to both Jack and her sister that she faltered slightly. Elle was the older sister, if only by a minute, and Celene had never truly defied up to her. "Oh, if I had a zouhlad for every time I heard that." she muttered as she dropped the basket of clothing next to Elle. "There's the mending." she said.

It was obvious, if not apparent, that the Glasswen girls were related. They both had the same crystalline blue eyes and pleasantly colored lips, but, while Elle's features were more sharp and memorably distinct than her sister's, Celene's features were a maximized version of Elle's. Her lips were full and beautiful, making the grumpy pout that Celene presently wore look amazingly attractive. While her cheekbones were high, like Elle's, they were pushed farther back, giving her face more of a heart shape rather than one similar to Elle's oval. The eyes were much wider and longer lashed (though Elle's lashes were still darker), with a high arched brow. The curls that hung past her shoulders were golden and sunlit. The nose was delicate, and the figure was curved and full, with subtly muscled arms, feminine legs, and surprisingly tiny, delicate feet.

But what was even more eye-catching than Celene's beauty was the fact that she did not look in any sort of state to _be _beautiful. For one thing, it was very unusual for any young woman's legs to be showing in Fifth Age Vaillere, but Celene's servant's gown was so worn and filthy that the hem was torn in many places, revealing her attractive calves and almost her entire knee. The gown was also too small for her, making it stick much closer to her skin than was proper for a servant. Her tanned skin was dusted all over with soot from the fireplace, but it somehow made her seem all the prettier, as if the colors of her lip and eye were more visible when set in black ash. In total, there was just something about Celene's apparent inconveniences that was altogether...too convenient. As if she had planned out this entire scheme of imperfections to really enhance her own effect. An observant outsider could easily catch all of this, and then, when that outsider would look into the eyes of Celene Glasswen, they would see that dangerous spark of ambition that was glaring out through them. Because Celene _was _ambitious, and while her actions did have boundaries, her imagination didn't. Something about the way she presented herself as cleverly as she did made it apparent that she didn't intend to be living in a cellar for too long. She had the ability to use all that she had, in any way she could.

Elle looked down at the basket and nodded. "Thanks, Cele." she was thanking her for more than just the laundry, but for her silence as well. When Celene realized this, she flushed and turned her head toward the floor.

"If you need me, I'll be in the cellar." she said, obviously a bit uncomfortable. She started towards the door, but turned back. "When's Roberta going to be back?" she asked cautiously.

Elle saw the spark in her twin's eye and smirked inwardly, wondering whether she should tell her the truth. "In about an hour." It was a lie.

Celene's eyes widened, and that spark became more and more prominent inside them. "Alright." she said, obviously pleased. She gave Jack a little glare as she left the kitchen, tripping slightly over those miniscule feet when she closed the door. She lacked her twin's grace.

The second the door slammed shut, Jack burst out laughing the laugh that he had been holding back for quite a while now. Elle gave him one of her looks, but she couldn't resist shaking her head at her sister. It was difficult to tell if the little smile tugging at her mouth was one that was fond, sad, or a smirk.

When Jack had finished laughing, he took a sip of his ale and glanced at the door Celene had gone through. "So, who's she going to have down there?" Elle didn't answer him, only stared at the door expressionlessly. "Anyone I would know?" he asked with a smirk.

Elle shook her head again and let her smile widen a bit more as she glanced down to her work again. "Probably one of the young nobles up the hill. They're the ones that usually pay her."

"What about those farm boys? Have there been any of them recently?"

"Two this month so far."

"Damn, and I had thought she only went for stuck up aristocrats."

"As many of those as there are, she will take a farm boy occasionally."

"But only the stuck up farm boys."

"Sadly yes, and never anyone that isn't _devastatingly _handsome."

"By whose standards?" Jack asked in obvious jest, raising an eyebrow at her. "Yours or hers?"

Elle only smiled at him mysteriously. "Depends on the man."

Jack laughed and continued the previous conversation. "How much do they pay her usually?"

"Not as much as those noble brats do, but they actually pay quite a similar price."

"Have you checked her stock lately?"

Elle nodded, almost gravely. "Just yesterday. She's nearly got fifteen hundred zouhlads saved down there." Giving her perfect posture a rest, she leaned her back against her chair as she looked down at the table, deep in thought. "What she's saving it for...that I have no idea."

Jack raised an eyebrow at his best friend. "I still don't get how you can't see it; it's ration money. She wants to run away."

But Elle shook her head. "I've told you Jack, she wouldn't do that. She'd be eaten alive out there, she knows it. Besides, where would she run? A whore house is probably the only place she could get a steady income, and if that's the case, there's no point in leaving." she stared at him then, straight in the eye, showing him that she meant what she said. "She wouldn't do that Jack. I trust her." that being said, she grabbed a dress from the basket on the floor and began to sew.

Jack sighed and leaned back in his chair, circling the rim of his glass with a tanned finger. He wasn't sure if Elle was right to trust Celene. It kind of unsettled him that his best friend had so much faith in her twin, mostly because of the fact that he had known Celene ever since they were four years old, and lately, he felt as if he didn't really know her at all. The girl spent nearly all her time down by the fireplace cellar, either reading or writing or scheming or dreaming or having sex with the men she brought to her little cot by the fire. In fact, the only attractive young man who had been in close proximity to the house that Celene hadn't landed was Jack.

He watched Elle as she sewed, and yawned loudly. "If you're going to ignore me and waste your time working, than I'm not so sure I should give you your gift."

Jack watched in satisfaction as his best friend raised her head from her work and looked at him curiously. "What gift?"

He smirked as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a drawstring back. Dipping his hand into the back, he revealed what appeared to be a block of brown, solid substance. Its appearance was simple, but that didn't stop Elle's eyes from widening.

"You've been sitting here sipping at our old ale when all this time you had chocolate in your pocket?" she asked with an incredulous voice and smile.

Jack laughed and shrugged guiltily. "I forgot I had brought it." Elle reached to grab the semi-melted brick and took a bite. The sweet, unusual taste of the chocolate wrapped itself around her tongue as she savored every second of the bite. If only she could savor every second of life, the way she did with chocolate. The way Angela did. The way her father did.

She was about to take her second bite when the brick was snatched out of her hand. She glared at Jack with indignity. He smiled vaguely and laughed.

"Now, now, we mustn't get grabby now, must we?" he said mockingly, speaking to her as a governess speaks to a six year old child. "The rest of this is for gambling."

Elle raised her eyebrows. "Gambling on what?" she asked, knowing very well the answer.

Jack's eyes began to widen and grow excited, as if he had switched from being the governess to the child that he genuinely was. "Frostros."

Elle smiled fondly with the tiniest hint of a smirk and laughed, but she did agree to play. She took the cards out from the hidden cupboard inside the wine cabinet, and began to deal them out.

Frostros was a game that she and Jack had been playing ever since they were children. It was a silly card game, involving the constant rotation of cards and the guessing of which card was being bet on. It was the type of strategy that children would use, because the game was made for children.

And that's all that Jack wanted to be. A child. The best times of his life all happened in his childhood, when Glasswen twin's parents were alive, when Celene preferred the sunlight to the firelight, when Jack's father was almost always away at the war, when Angela and Lisabeth were merely two playmates instead of the twins' stepsisters, when Elle had no reason to obey Roberta. When none of them had a care in the world. Jack didn't want to face the reality that was life; he didn't want to accept the fact that he had to grow up.

So he held onto one of the only bits of childhood that was still in existence; Frostros. Even at his age of sixteen, Frostros never ceased to excite him and endear itself to him. Elle was not stupid or cruel; she knew how much Jack loved the game. She would never refuse to play with him, partly because she cared about him, and partly because there was a piece of her that wanted to hold onto her own childlike innocence, despite the fact that hers had faded away long ago.

Roberta turned out to be gone for much longer than an hour, so Elle and Jack talked and played Frostros until somewhere around midday. Though it was made for children, it was a rather continuous game. Finally, they came to the last round and put the chocolate in the center. As they laid down their cards, it was very apparent who had won.

"Hand over the chocolate, Jack." Elle said triumphantly, holding out her hand. She could have easily reached the brick herself, but she couldn't resist making him suffer. Grudgingly, he gave it to her and pouted at she took small bites out of it, enjoying each one. Try as he may to keep the disappointed look on his face, he couldn't resist laughing at the ridiculous sounds Elle purposely made as she ate the chocolate. Soon they had both burst into hysterical laughter, at absolutely nothing. There had always been something about a laugh; it was contagious.

When they had finished laughing, Jack looked at Elle with mock authority. Elle merely smiled and rolled her eyes at him.

"Elle, you have already received your reward for winning the game." He said, turning his voice down a pitch and imitating the stiff-backed command of a chancellor. "But that was one of the best played games of Frostros that I have seen in my time." Elle watched him with obvious amusement. "And for that," he said, reverting back to his own voice and manner. "-you shall receive another reward."

The drawstring back from which the chocolate had come from was lying on the table. Jack picked it up and pulled another smaller bag from it, and handed it to Elle with a mysterious smile on his face. She opened it and glanced inside, her mouth and eyes widening with shock.

For a moment she couldn't speak. When she did, her voice was breathless with thanks, disbelief, and reluctance. "Jack..."

He stopped her before she could protest. "It's yours. Take it. And that is an order from the prince."

Elle reached into the bag and pulled out a ball of silvery white thread. It was soft as a feather, delicate as a robin's egg, and beautiful as an eagle. Though the thread was thin and flexible, it almost appeared to be transparent, as if it were glass. Elle had never seen such a beautiful thread in all her life.

"Myingren silk," she whispered. "But...but Jack, it's so rare...I can't-"

"Elle, when you're a prince of a kingdom like Vaillere, very little is truly priceless." he said, with a quality in his voice that was somewhere in between bitterness and pride. "They just brought in loads of the stuff to the palace, snatching some of it was easy." he smiled softly at her as she looked up, completely speechless. "Now, don't waste it. Use it one something special." he advised, reverting back to the lecturing governess. Elle laughed a little at it, and then stood up serenely.

"Thank you, Jack." she said quietly, a quality in her eyes that had not been present before. She began to step slowly closer to him, and Jack couldn't resist letting his eyes trail over her figure. Finally Elle closed the space between them and wrapped her arms around his neck, loosely and seductively. She began to brush her lips against his, laughing quietly as she saw that childish thrill in his eyes that she had seen so many times before.

"You planned this, didn't you?" she asked in a low voice.

Jack turned up one corner of his mouth in a soft smile. "I might have." And then he kissed her.

* * *

They lied next to each other, unclothed in Elle's bed, staring at the ceiling in comfortable silence. Jack was deep in thought, when suddenly he spoke. "Father's holding another ball for me."

Elle stiffened the tiniest bit, and then lay still, for a while silent. "Mmhm?" she finally said.

He didn't answer at first. "He's serious this time. I have to choose a bride."

Elle uncomfortably braced herself. "I see." she said slowly. The pause after her words was brief but strained, until it was broken by Jack.

"Marry me, Elle!" he burst out suddenly, his voice raising a desperate octave higher. She winced at the sound of his begging. "Elle, I can't choose a wife out of those aristocratic pigs of women! I care more about you than I ever have about anyone, and I need you with me there!" He watched her waiting for a response. When he did not get one, he continued in a softer voice. "Nothing would change, Elle," he pleaded. "I wouldn't treat you any differently, we would still be the same-"

"_Nothing _would _change_?" Elle interrupted with sharp incredulity. "Jack, I would have to live in a palace, we would have to live together, people would see me as a princess, Celene would be left alone with Roberta, and you say that nothing would _change_? I'm a servant, meant for dusty tables and hallways, not for chandeliers and fine jewelry, nor for the running of a kingdom."

"Your mother was royalty," Jack challenged.

"I'm not exactly my mother. And I can't leave Celene here, not on her own." She looked away from him and got a distant look in her eyes. "I'm all that's kept her from her from slicing off Roberta's hair in the night and then running off to one of her pleasure men for shelter."

Jack shook her head. "Your sister might be a whore, but she's tough. She can handle herself." his eyes began to widen, like a homeless child on the streets, imploring pedestrians for a crust of bread. "Please, Elle."

It pained Elle to see the look in his eyes, but ever since childhood, she had been a professional with self-control. Jack was no exception. "We've been over this Jack." she said softly, decisively. "We can't marry."

Defeated finally, Jack slammed his head down on the pillow with a groan. "Why?" he moaned in despair, unsure if he was asking Elle, himself, or the gods above.

There was a momentary pause before the faintest wan smile appeared on Elle's lips. "I don't love you, Jack, anymore than you love me. We've both seen what lack of love in marriage can do to people."

Jack was silent before groaning once again, hating Elle for being right.

But before either of them could say anything else, they heard the slam of the door, and a woman's call that did not belong to Celene. "ELLE!"

Jack jumped slightly in the bed, but Elle simply stood from the bed, unfazed. "Get dressed." she ordered quietly, as she did the same. "You can go out the back door, she won't see you."

Like an obedient little boy, Jack rushed to get his clothes on, and watched a fully dressed Elle walk smoothly out the door, calling out "I'm coming, Roberta."

Staring after her in disbelief, he slung his jacket over his shoulders, and sped down the second staircase as quietly as he could.


	3. Good Liars

**By Blood and Marriage**

Celene had never seen the need of a nightgown.

To her, there had never been any point in wearing something hot and oppressive, particularly when she slept. The little cot right next to the warm fireplace was considered her bed, and the cellar itself was considered her bedroom. And so her nightwear consisted of nothing but a breast covering and a small slip. And why not? No one ever came into the cellar to be shocked by her appearance, save for Elle, who was used to her sister's odd habit, and Celene's admirers, whom Celene was quite pleased to shock.

She was completely alone by the fireplace, after realizing too late that Elle had lied to her about Roberta's time of return; she was gone for much longer than an hour. By then, Celene had already rushed the count's son out of her bed, finished the rest of her chores, along with dusting the chimney in a rush. But when she saw that her stepmother had yet to come back, she threw caution to the winds and simply lit the fireplace again, lied down on her cot and read one of the large books of fairy tales that her father used to read to his twins. But while the stories had simply amused Elle, they entranced and hypnotized Celene. As a small child, she was possessed by the books, and would always imagine her life was a fairy tale; that she was a princess in a palace. And, although Celene was no longer a young fool, her decisive mind had never quite forgotten that dream.

"ELLE!"

It was Roberta's voice, calling from the foyer. Celene's body jerked at the sudden sound. "I'm coming, Roberta." a new voice called; this time her sister's. She looked up at the ceiling to hear the sound of footsteps and a closing door, and cautiously set her book down. Her trained ears caught the sound of swift, stumbling feet, rushing down what she knew very well to be the back staircase. Celene smirked to herself. That would be Jack, running down from Elle's room, as he always did. Her twin's affair had always amused Celene; particularly the fact that Elle could still get physical enjoyment from a boy close enough to her to be her brother.

As delicately and with as little noise as she could manage, Celene grabbed her book and moved off the cot, trying desperately not to trip over her daintily useless feet; to imitate her sister's spectacular stability. She miserably failed to achieve the latter, but surprisingly accomplished the former. Sound traveled all too acutely throughout the walls of the house, and she didn't want to risk being heard by her stepmother. Not now.

She stepped over to the mantel and knelt down, moving a large, rectangular stone from its place in the floor pattern. It slid out of its panel easily, revealing a well-sized, open compartment, perfect for a small storage area. There were three large books inside it, all of them tall tales, or children's stories. Tenderly, Celene placed the fourth book next to the stack, unwittingly letting her fingers caress the cover. It took her a few hypnotic seconds for her to realize what she had been doing. Pulling her hand away gently, she smiled inwardly and turned her eyes to the large pile of coins and notes; breielles and zouhlads. Celene held her breath as she scooped up a handful of the bronze breielles, eyes widened with slight exhilaration, and began to count her savings. Up the staircase, she could still hear the voices of the people who had always passed for her family.

She finished counting, and could not help but feel as if she were suddenly as if she were suddenly being emptied beneath her substantial chest and flat stomach, like a statue; one that was beautifully carved, but hollowed out. 1,511 zouhlads, and six breielles. A good sum for a lowly servant such as herself, but in reality, it wasn't that much, and it wasn't enough. It had been for quite some time now that Celene Glasswen had been saving up for two items. She was nearing the amount of pay for the first, but had a stretched road to travel if she wanted to buy the second.

She stared at the money in her hands, and soundlessly placed it back in the compartment, covering all of it with the stone. As she looked up, she inhaled deeply and stared straight ahead. Her lovely face was now set, eyes not defeated but determined. With one last look at the stone, she bounded up to the top of the staircase with as little sound as possible, leaned her ear against the door, and began to listen.

* * *

Elle reached the last step of the staircase, arranging her expression so that it was blank as a servant's face should be; eyes open wide enough to be attentive, less than enough to be coy or alluring; chin tilted the slightest bit downward in what should be considered respect, if not fear; mouth set in a straight, impassive line. She lost her personal aura of control by the tilt of the chin, but retained all the elegance of her posture. Once, she had even considered dropping _that _as she entered her maid's role, but found that she had an extremely difficult decision to make: whom to honor? Her mother's poise, which she herself had inherited, or her stepmother's authority? The question was too exhausting to answer, so she did nothing about it. 

She turned and saw Roberta walking into the foyer, Lisabeth and Angela behind her, purchases in their arms. When the woman's eyes met Elle's, she immediately turned away and walked towards the kitchen, busying herself with her purchases.

Roberta was a small woman in her late forties, reaching Elle's own height. She had the look of a woman who may have been attractive in her years of youth, but age had left its mark on her in the form of wrinkles around her eyes and mouth that blemished her olive skin. However petite her body was, her face was slightly rectangular shaped, with defined bone structure that preserved some of her former beauty. Her forehead was high, her eyes were a pale grey, and her long, dark hair was cleverly put up in braids that concealed the traces of white strands. The thin, pale lips that were normally firm and pleasantly set would have given Roberta Inlet the look of a controlled, agreeable woman. But something about her demeanor seemed to change in the company of her stepdaughters.

"Did anyone come to call while we were gone?" Roberta asked, in her quiet, uneven tone her voice always contained in Elle's presence.

In a fragment of a second, Elle thought back to Jack's entrance, and the image of Celene opening her door to some handsome admirer or another. She shook her head. "No, madam."

"And your chores are near done?"

"Quite, madam."

Roberta said nothing and nodded. Suddenly her gaze fell on the kitchen's table, and her pale eyes widened. Elle followed her glance and felt herself staring in shock at Angela's hidden bottle of ale, the one that Elle and Jack had left on the table. The room fell utterly silent.

The woman's eyes were near bulging now, and the hands that held her purchases were shaking. Elle felt panic spur her heart, making it beat louder and quicker, just as a drumstick beats rapidly against its drum. Roberta had stopped walking, and now stood still to the ground, unable to move. Her lip and chin trembled as she spoke, her voice likewise moving uncontrollably. "What is that doing here?"

Angela also staring at the bottle, face contorted into what was clearly utmost panic. Her eyes darted to Elle, shaking her head viciously fast, mouthing pleading syllables to her stepsister. The gods only knew what Roberta would do to her daughter if she discovered the ale's origin.

Elle thought quickly. "Oh, I forgot. Someone _did _come to call, young master Edwards, from that extravagant manor up the hill. The ale was thanks for lending him the carriage that one night, when his horse broke down. He believed it was the least he could do."

Angela closed her eyes and let out a long tortured breath, giving Elle a look of solid gratitude, which Elle returned with a one cornered smile. It was a smile she had always saved specifically for Angela (and, on occasion, Jack), whenever she was guilty of the house's most recent crime.

She turned back to Roberta, who was not taking Elle's reply as well as her daughter. The relief on her face was only slight, and her breath was still fluctuating unpleasantly. Lisabeth, still in the corner by the door, looked at her mother with nervous anticipation.

Still trembling madly, Roberta gulped, as if testing her throat to make sure it was still capable of movement. When she spoke, however, her voice seemed calm.

"Take that bottle out of this house at once." she said to Elle, turning her face so that she was looking neither at her stepdaughter nor the ale. "You will throw it into the lake for the talons of deep water to snatch and grab at it as they please. After that, please complete your chores, I would like to see this house cleaned before midnight."

The well-practiced tone, the rehearsed lines, they all made Elle feel as if she were back at the theatre, watching some sort of Westlieren play. She was used to this from Roberta; she supposed it was her stepmother's only veneer to conceal the fear, hatred, and jealousy that hid in her heart whenever she was near the Glasswen twins.

Elle nodded at Roberta's orders, and curtsied enviably as she walked to open the back door in the kitchen, grabbing the ale in the process. Her hand rested on the door's handle. Before turning it, she turned her head and stared straight on at Roberta.

"Have a good day, madam."

The door shut softly.

* * *

She returned a half an hour later to find Angela standing in the kitchen, stashing another bottle of ale in her hidden cupboard. Elle raised her eyebrows and gave a resigned sigh. 

"I give up Angela. It really is hard, you know, being your second mother."

Angela just laughed. "Elle, you're as good as a real mother. I'm in your debt now." She spoke in her easy, casual way that only Angela possessed; as if she were just tossing her words out into the air, not necessarily caring where they landed. Elle rolled her eyes, but couldn't help but smile inwardly. Angela's lazy carefree manner was oddly endearing.

Angela was the oldest of the Inlet sisters, no younger than Elle herself. Her appearance was less than attractive; she was short and nearly neck less, with a round face, large cheeks and pale, slightly yellowed skin. Her lips with red but thin, and hardly ever did the smile that revealed her unclean teeth leave her mouth. Both her beady, sparkling eyes and stringy curls were black, as well as the gown she currently wore. It was pulled obscenely low to exhibit her finest physical feature; her cleavage. One glance at her chest was enough to convince many passing men that she was a talented whore. But Angela Inlet was no whore. She simply worked for free.

Elle shook her head. "This is really getting absurd, Angela. You know it's dangerous to have ale and alcohol around her, and I can't keep covering up for you."

While Angela was no longer grinning, she wasn't frowning either as she raised an eyebrow. "You do know that you wouldn't have had to cover up for me if you hadn't left the bottle out in the first place, right?"

Defeated, Elle could only give her a warning look, which Angela caught and laughed.

"So," she began, the twinkle in her eyes alive and mischievous. "How did the handsome prince enjoy himself while we were gone?"

Elle only glanced up at her apprehensively as she knelt on the floor with a wet washrag. "Do I even want to know how you guessed he was here?" she said, looking down and scrubbing.

Angela smirked, clearly enjoying herself. "You can relax. I only noticed because you don't usually drink without company."

While Elle's expression did not change, she couldn't help but inwardly chide herself once again for underestimating her stepsister. It was rather often that she forgot about Angela's observancy.

"How much did you drink, by the way?" Angela continued, her voice overtly suggestive and her eyes dancing.

Elle stopped scrubbing and looked up at her. "Would you like to go and check the bottle yourself? It should be floating somewhere near Autanoer by now."

Angela smiled before putting on a mock pout. "Fine, don't tell me. I suppose now I am free to assume that the two of you were drunk when you went upstairs, am I right?"

"I'm not drunk now, and he just left."

"You mean I just missed him? What a shame, I had had my own ideas of what to do with him."

Elle set her jaw differently, her eyes showing an emotion somewhere in between exasperation and despair.

"You should stop, Angela," she said, abruptly

"Stop what?"

"Handing yourself out, without question."

Angela was silent as she began to stare off in the distance, sipping her glass of ale. The dominant trace of a smile was left on her closed lips. "Live in the moment, Ella," Elle winced at the nickname. "I don't care for anything eternal."

"These men mean nothing to you, Angela."

"You're hardly one to talk, Ella. You certainly don't love Jack."

Elle stared Angela straight in the eye. "But I _trust _him, Angela. He wouldn't hurt me. Your men are different."

Angela only laughed once more. She never tired of it. "Elle, how can these men hurt me?"

"In any possible way. Angela, if you don't mean a thing to these men, there's no way of knowing what they could do to you."

At these words, the smile on Angela's lips shifted oddly into something resembling cynicism. The previously blue sky outside was stained with the orange and gold glow of a sunset that seeped through the kitchen window, catching its reflection in her distant black eyes. "So what are you suggesting, Elle? That I find a man whom I mean something to?"

Elle stopped scrubbing as the realization of her own words surged through her unpleasantly. She moved her mouth silently, wanting to apologize, and unsure of what to apologize for. Angela laughed, her smile now far away, with a bitter wisdom that would seem out of place to one not familiar with her. "We're not all painted pretty like you, Ella. I'm no beauty, nor am I a fool enough not to see it so. It would take a long time for any man to fall in love with me. Their eyes are domineering, and anyone with a sister like yours knows that full and well." She laughed again and took another.

_Angela's not bitter for her own cause,_ Elle thought as she examined her stepsister. _She's upset for the rest of us, all victims of males' visual obsessions. Her sister. Her mother... _Elle stopped her mind from wandering in that direction.

"By the way, Elle-" she snapped her head up, thankful for Angela's interruption. "Has anyone ever told you that you are a damned good liar?" her stepsister smirked.

And at that, Elle could not resist a chuckle as she crouched lower on the floor, scrubbing with a little less intensity than before.

* * *

Jack ran for about an eighth of a mile before slowing down to a walk, just to be safe. He truly did not want to think of the look that Roberta would have on her face if she ever caught him near her stepdaughters. 

The prince didn't bother to speed up again until he reached the town's center, through which he had to endure the glances and whispers of the peasants and upper middle class as they noticed the tatters of his garments. Undoubtedly each and every one of them was making up stories of the prince's latest escape adventure to satisfy their own curiosities. Because that is simply what people do. When they ask questions to which they receive no answers, they persist and persist until it become intolerable, or they make up their own answer, which is then spread around until everyone grows to accept it as the truth.

Jack hated it. But it was far from the worst aspect of the life of a prince of a prosperous kingdom.

The prince was suddenly washed over with sheer relief as he spotted a small cluster of palace knights chatting and laughing near the fountain at the center of the crowded street. The focus of the knight's attention was one of their own, a young man who wore leather armor rather than metal, wearing a feathered cap with a quiver slung over his shoulder, marking him as one of the king's archers. He appeared to be telling a curious tale to the knights, assisted by amusing faces and expressive hand gestures. Jack had no doubt in his mind from watching the gestures that it was a bawdy tale, and knowing the storyteller, it was a narrative that was as serious as it was comical. For those were the kinds of stories that Fletcher Arden told. He loved to make people laugh so that he could laugh at them.

Jack bolted up to the archer and grabbed his shoulder. His captive spun around indignantly just before Jack began to drag him away from the gathering of knights. "Hey, what are you, oh, it's you."

Jack grumbled impatiently. "Don't sound so disappointed."

Fletcher pretended to look shocked as her freed his shoulder of the prince's hand. "Disappointed, to see such a princely face, accompanied by such a princely purse?" he asked with an elaborate, mocking bow, clearly enjoying himself. "Why on earth would I be disappointed? I am here to serve you to your heart's content, your highness, as we all are."

The ridiculous look on the archer's face would have been enough to make Jack burst out laughing, had he not caught the deliberate slight on his royalty in his friend's jest.

Fletcher was no more than a year or two older than Jack, but he looked as if he were a mere fifteen years of age. His frame was small and lean, but muscles were frankly obvious at even a glance. His face was delicately structured, which, along with his size, resulted in his young appearance. The olive skin that covered his bones was tanned from the summer sun, and the clean but unshorn hair on his head was a dusted blonde. But the freckles on his nose bridge that began to spread just slightly onto his cheeks were defined and bold, and his curled-lashed eyes were wide, dark, and glinting merrily. The combination of these two features could have made him appear as a charming entertainer, or a devilish cutpurse, depending on the character of the observer.

Fletcher Arden was both.

"In that case, you're coming with me. You have to bring me up to the palace." Jack shot right back, with a feeble attempt at princely authority. "Take me to my father."

At this, a full-fledged smile made an appearance on his friend's face. "You want me to pretend that I found you and captured you and forced you to come back home?" It wasn't technically a question, since Fletcher already knew the answer.

Jack winced; the idea sounded ridiculous to his own ears. "It's better than letting him know that I came back on my own." he mumbled grudgingly.

Fletcher shook his head vaguely, still smiling, though this time it was somewhat inwardly. "Vaillere is turned upside down indeed. You know, Jack, most fugitives run _away _from the soldiers who have been ordered to turn them in. You coxcomb, Jack."

"I'm _not _a fugitive, nor a coxcomb!"

"Nor a good liar, either."

Jack had no answer to that, so instead he stared at the ground grouchily as he walked and swore at Fletcher, who only smiled wider.

After a few moments of silence (during which Fletcher whistled), Jack spoke up. "Do you think he suspects the Glasswen twins of hiding me? It hasn't been too long since he's spoke with them last, and I don't think he took too kindly to them."

Fletcher shook his head dismissively. "Relax, Jack. Those two can hold their own a bit better than you."

Jack sighed, frustrated beyond comparison. "You're enjoying every minute of this, aren't you?"

Fletcher's smile broadened. "Jack, if your flaws aren't highlighted for you, then you'll never bother to fix them."

"So you wouldn't mind if I pointed out a few of your flaws?" Jack asked hardly.

"Now, now, Jack!" Fletcher shook his head and tutted disapprovingly. "That is no role for a prince to take on! The only ones who are granted that privilege are allowed fools and archers." he said with a bow before continuing walking. "The rest are hanged for such honesty."

Jack winced slightly at the words, for Fletcher was right.

King Acton was incredibly secretive about his dealings with his subjects, but he was not an open-minded man. When another man's words crossed the boundaries of his own ideas, or when overly frank opinions of him reached his ears, he showed very little mercy. If any at all. The idea that had always broken Jack in two was the knowledge that so few of the good people of Vaillere were aware of what went on behind the palace walls of the king.

Walls that Jack and Fletcher now stood in front of.

* * *

**Wow, did it take me forever to write this.** **I apologize to everyone! I really am sorry this took so long. I ran into some problems with introducing Angela, Roberta, and with that section on Celene. Fletcher, however...hehe, he was alot of fun to introduce. I based him a little bit on a character that I am currently playing in a production of King Lear, kudos to any other geeks like me who caught on to that.  
**

**A few little author's notes: For those of you who aren't into Shakespeare and who don't attend any ****Renaissance ****a coxcomb refers to those court-jester's hats with the points and the bells on them, and was often used when refering to fools. Some pronunciation notes also:**

**Vaillere (the kingdom that this part is taking place in) V-eye-AIR (the double-L thing is pronounced like a Spanish word)**

**Autanoer (another kingdom mentioned in this chapter that will be important later) Aut-uh-no-ere/air**

**zouhlads (currency) ZOW-leds**

**breielles (also currency) BRAY-eel-es**

**One more thing, I'm changing the title of this story from ****Image of Perfection, or ****Happily Ever After (which I had no intentions of keeping, it really is a horrible title, I just couldn't think of anything else at the time) to What Was Made for Children, a title which I think will have much more to do with the story.**

**Thanks sooooo much to **Abbeygirl06, MiraiYume, **and especially to **MidnightBlue88 **for such a long review, and for finally updating her Breakfast Club stories! If anyone else is into that movie, you really should read them, they're brilliant. **

**-Fool out. **


	4. Changes of Plan

Disclaimer: Cinderella isn't mine. Yah. One other thing in this chapter that I don't own is the name Andrenyi. This name belongs to Agatha Christie. (And to anyone who has read Murder on the Orient Express, no, the name is nothing symbolic to Andrenyi's character, I just liked the sound of it.) :D

**Changes of Plan **

The Vaillerian Palace was an enormous fixture in white marble, red sandstone, and peach quartz, three substances the kingdom was renowned for. Had there been any other person in front of it, there would be more of a need to describe its numerous towers and parapets, the magnificence of its gates and outer walls, the grandeur of the opening doors and the exquisiteness of its stained glass windows. But as the eyes that currently beheld it belonged to the crown prince and his best friend, all the beauty of the castle was lost. To Jack, the palace strongly resembled a giant. An undefeatable enemy looming over him, staring him down. To Fletcher's trained eye, all that was visible were the cracks in the marble, burn marks on outer walls, and all sorts of blemishes on the seemingly flawless surface; each of them disturbing reminders of unnecessary battles.

Jack stared up at the building, using every once of energy he had left in order not to whine. "Do I have to?" he asked Fletcher, knowing how pathetically childish he was being.

Fletcher's grin was wry as he turned to the prince. "Must I answer that?" Without waiting for a reply, Fletcher grabbed Jack's elbow roughly and pulled him out from the shadow of the trees and up to the gate. Before Jack could question him as to what the hell he was doing, he remembered the act he had asked Fletcher to put on. So he pretended to struggle against Fletcher's grip as they came into view of Tyson, one of the two impressively muscled and attentive guards stationed at the black hematite gates.

When his eyes set on Fletcher, he seemed slightly startled at first to see him with a prisoner, until he recognized the captive. The large man chuckled dryly.

"You'd better get him inside fast. I doubt his father's too pleased." Tyson said as he signaled to the key bearer behind the gate.

Jack snorted, but Fletcher only smiled brightly. "Thanks for the advice!" he called back to Tyson, now dragging Jack through the open gate with a tight grip that pained the prince's elbow. Jack was starting to wish that he hadn't asked his friend to put on the act.

As they entered the grand palace, for the second time that day, Jack heard the simultaneous, subtle hush of the palace attendants' voices, and saw numerous eyes turn their glances towards him. It was exactly the same as the occurrence in the town square, although fortunately, the courtiers and inhabitants of the palace had much more practice with toning down their gossip to an acceptably subdued level.

In Vaillere there had always been a certain talent needed for aristocratic style gossip. And it wasn't until Jack had mentioned it to both Elle and Celene as a child about it, and had seen their shocked and disgusted faces at the idea, that he had realized how absurd this idea truly was. Perhaps, he thought, you never realize what truly makes sense when you have been brought up to accept it all.

Jack said his good byes to Fletcher quickly and hurried past the onlookers, trying to maintain his temper and not groan loudly in front of all of them, and walked up the marble and quartz staircase across the main hall. Reaching the top, he swept down the long halls, each of them silent save for the hollow echoing of his steps. Finally, he reached his father's study, and was admitted inside by the men at the doors. He heard them slam shut behind him, and looked up from the floor to lock eyes with the man sitting at the desk in the center of the large room. Jack's father, King Acton.

The king only looked up at his son for a second before turning his eyes down and continuing to write. "I didn't expect you to return until tomorrow. Did you get yourself caught again, or come back of your own free will?" His tone was casual, with only a slight breeze of mocking to it. Jack winced obviously, knowing he was safe since his father's eyes weren't on him.

"I was found and delivered back here." Jack said, carefully keeping his tone at level.

The king laughed. It was a harsh, full, and strong sound, memorable and strangely camouflaged all at once. "What was your reason for flight this time, Jack?" he asked, glancing up at his son and dipping his quill into the inkbottle.

Jack inhaled a sharp breath. He could have guessed that his father would ask this question, had he not been blocking all thoughts of anything related to the palace from his head while he had been at Elle's.

After a long pause, Jack responded quietly. "He had a wife and children, father."

The king stopped writing and moved on to read another letter, only glancing up at Jack. "Yes, by some coincidence, most of the men who cross me seem to have families." He stopped reading and was thoughtfully silent for a moment. "Do you suppose it could be that we gain a false sense of our own safety when there are a solid amount of people in our lives who truly care for us? Do we feel power when this is our situation, and become blind to the dangers we have put ourselves in?" There was silence in which the king contemplated this idea and Jack did not answer, being too busy wondering how behaviors like his father's could no longer shock him.

"Hmmm," the king replied after a few moments. His eyes were misted, almost as if his mind was not really there in the same room with his son. "No, this is only true for the common man, for the fool. Yes, only fools would have be so close minded as to create for ourselves an illusion of nonexistent safety such stupidity as to forget reality by focusing on our close-minded illusion of safety. But the wise man...yes, it is the wise man that says nothing, out of fear of losing his loved ones I suppose. The wise man evaluates his surroundings, and comes to the immediate conclusion that he cannot, must not lose, or his family loses with him."

A man like King Acton could openly speak to himself with ease, no matter who else was in the room with him. Many nobles often mocked him behind his back for this, calling him a lunatic. But they were cowards, every one of them, for these treasonous words were spoken only in the comfort of their own homes, and said only to most trusted companions in the dark of night, when every prying eye was shut with sleep and every curious ear was dead to the world. They were frightened of the king. And they had good reason to be.

King Acton was, in no way, a physically imposing man. He did look rather young for a man in his early fifties, with an even tan that matched his son's. He was short, shorter than Jack, with hair that look as if it had originally been a dark, rich auburn color, now unusually peppered with varying shades of gray and black in age. His eyes were a dark, forest green that occasionally matched the color in Jack's ever-changing eyes, and were topped by naturally fine brows. His shoulders were slightly broad, but the rest of his figure was slim and young. The only evidence of his age came in the form of lines beneath his eyes and cutting down across his cheekbones. But his appearance was the reason why most peasants were in the dark about the goings on of palace life. The simple men of the town had never seen the king up close while hearing him speak.

The eloquence of the king's voice and words did more than simply change your opinion about the man himself, but about his appearance too. Once you realized what went on in Acton's head, the green of his eyes seemed striking and diabolic. The wrinkles around them gave the impression of, not age, but of harsh, cruel wisdom. His odd hair color became a sign of the supernatural to the religious eye, and the thinness of his brow, once merely effeminate, began to reflect the thin string of his temper as they changed their shape in expression. Jack had begun to think of his father like this from something that Celene had pointed out when they were children. It had been the first time she had seen his father, and with all the ease of a child, she said to Acton: "You look different when you talk."

Jack remembered avoiding his father's eye after those words had been said.

"Hmmm..." King Acton said absently. "I must write that down sometime," he stood from the chair and began straightening his papers. "But anyhow, Jack, you must prepare your things. Two days from now, we shall be leaving for Autanoer."

Jack was stunned. "Autanoer?" he asked incredulously. "Why?"

"Yes, I know, it's terribly last minute, but the matter is quite serious. Diedrick's messenger was rather reluctant to talk about it, said he had been ordered not to." Acton replied, completely dismissing his son's disbelief. Diedrick was the king of Autanoer. Acton never referred to kings of other countries with the use of their title. No one had ever reprimanded him for it.

"What's happening there that's so important that we have to get involved?" Jack demanded foolishly, less out of curiosity than of indignation.

"The kingdom's funds are vanishing." was the matter-of-fact reply. "Fast. Somewhere during the business transactions among the lords, several hundreds of zoulads are being relocated. Undoubtedly it has been going on for longer than they suspect. Diedrick is nothing short of a fool."

This surprised Jack, but only momentarily. "What is the need for us to get involved?" he argued desperately. "We don't need Autanoer right now, we're not bound to them."

"Perhaps not, and if my curiosity and admiration were not present, then I would agree with you entirely. But I am impressed by the scheme. Whatever system these thieves have set up, it is obviously a clever one. The Autanoeran lords are far sharper than Diedrick, and I cannot see them letting so much money escape their grasp easily. And the whole event reminds me of a mystery tale; so many suspects with motive, and no way of knowing which of them have alibis, since the crime has been occurring gradually..." a smile began to appear on Acton's lips as he thought aloud to himself. He turned to his son. "It is indeed intriguing, is it not, Jack?"

Jack thought his father sounded like a ridiculous narrator pulled straight out of a Westlieren drama, illustrating plotlines in a way that was supposed to draw the audience in. It would have been utterly laughable off of a stage, if King Acton had even appeared to _want _an audience. But no, the king said it all out of his own honest intrigue, completely oblivious to whoever might have been listening. He only nodded in response to his father's question.

"Right. Then you'll need to pack your things. Germaine should be able to do it. Go along, now." the king said, with a casual nod of his head.

"When are we leaving?" Jack asked even though he knew the answer; but perhaps it would change if he asked one last time.

"Two days from now, as I said before."

"And how long will we be there?" Jack asked, dreading the answer

"One can't be certain, perhaps a couple of weeks. Now hurry along!" was his father's slightly impatient reply.

Jack nodded miserably and walked out of the door, trying to keep his feet from speeding into a run. Not only did he have to convince Elle to marry him, but he now had only two days in which to do it. Or beg her enough so she would at _least _come to the ball.

* * *

In next to no time, Elle had completed her chores and had been about to retire to her room and take a small catnap. She had snatched Jack's gift of silk from the kitchen table, thanking the gods above that Roberta had not noticed the tiny purse lying around. She felt her body release all stress as she let herself collapse on her stiff bed. The mattress was the least luxurious and plush in the entire house, but Elle liked it, preferred it that way. In less than ten minutes, she was in a quiet, steady sleep that could have lasted hours.

And then Lisabeth came in.

She could have kept her steps quiet in respect for Elle's peace, but she didn't. She saw no point; not when she was about to wake her stepsister anyway.

"Elle," she said in her natural voice, which was louder than a whisper and low for her age. Lisabeth shook her stepsister with a slight roughness. Immediately, Elle jerked awake, her eyes sharp and ready after a moment of haziness. She finally focused in on her stepsister.

"What do you want, Lis?" Elle asked with a little irritability.

Lisabeth just kept looking at her, with no expression change. "I need you to help me."

Elle's eyebrows raised and her eyes narrowed. "With what?" she asked cautiously.

Lisabeth beckoned her with a large hand. "Come with me," she said hurriedly. In a moment she was out the door. Almost bewildered now, Elle followed.

At thirteen years of age, Lisabeth was the youngest of the Glasswen-Inlets. Unlike Angela, who was not at all attractive to women, but alluring to certain kinds of men, Lisabeth's face was neither ugly nor beautiful, but simply containing a plainness that, in some ways, was almost pretty when one actually bothered to stop and truly look at her. She short of stature and with young, plump body that had not yet had time to develop the traditionally beautiful hourglass shape. Her skin had that same yellowish tint that Angela's did, but combined with Lisabeth's soft tan, the skin color appeared almost golden. Her smooth hair was the same yellow brown as her skin, which could sound attractive in theory, but gave her an incredibly beige and single colored look. Her forehead was low and straight, seeming to protrude with heavy dark brows over deep-set brown eyes. Her nose was a tiny, button slope that topped the thin lips of every Inlet woman. Her entire face was squared with the same strong bone structure as her mother's. Lisabeth's was a face that could either seem immeasurably complex or dull, depending on the beholding eye. She gave off no aura of superiority or great innocence, but a unique neutralness that invited without meaning to. Elle cared deeply about her stepsister, and tried as hard as she could to keep her in the dark about Angela's and Celene's agendas. She failed. Miserably.

Lisabeth lead Elle to her own room, which was a good deal more extravagant than Elle's. A blend of beautiful mahogany wood, gold silks and cerulean walls, Lis could easily feel like a princess whenever she pleased. But she never seemed to notice the luxury of material things; she was most likely the only woman residing in the house who didn't.

Elle cast glances around the room, trying to wait patiently. "What did you want to show me?" she asked, quietly, so as not to allow her voice to pass through the thin walls.

Lisabeth walked past her bed and over to her wardrobe. She swung the doors open and pulled out a basket, gingerly handing it to her stepsister. Elle glanced inside it caution. She could see nothing at first, but white linen cloth, but nearly dropped the basket in shock when she glimpsed a tiny brown head poking out through the blankets.

Elle's eyes widened as she jerked her head up at her stepsister. "Lisabeth, _what is this_?"

"It's a baby," she replied, no sarcasm, no stupidity. Simple matter of fact.

Elle shook her head incredulously. "I know that, but who is he? _Whose _is he?" _Not Angela's_, she prayed silently to herself as she glanced down at the sleeping child again.

Lis shrugged. "He's Regina's. She didn't want him. She said his father was her Itoromen servant. That's why he's so dark." Lisabeth shook her head as she continued, almost lowering her voice more. "She's ashamed of him."

Elle looked down at the boy cradled in the basket, and took deep breaths as she truly looked at him for the first time. She hadn't seen too many Itorois in her life; it was kingdom much farther away from Vaillere. But now, as she beheld the tiny boy, she saw that he way beautiful. The soft, infant skin covering his tiny bones was a smooth, glossy brown. The texture of the skin seemed to be a bit different than that of a fair-skinned child, but the difference was difficult to describe. Thick black curls provided protection for the baby's head, and Elle could not resist running her hand through them, loving how fuzzy they felt against her fingers. But even doing this, she felt as if she were violating him. This was a child who had basically been dropped off on a sidewalk by his mother. Surely someone so new and so innocent would never allow a stranger to touch them in any way, not so soon after being betrayed.

_Elle, your being ridiculous_, she thought to herself. _This is a child, and infant, a baby. It-he can't understand what has been done to him, how he would have suffered if he _could _understand. Maybe if he lives to know of his history, then perhaps he will carry the burden of that knowledge and pain for the rest of his life. Pain that he can't even remember feeling...how could that bitch of a woman do that?_

"How could that bitch of a woman do that?" she whispered.

Lisabeth walked closer to her and ran a plump hand over the baby's face, as if she were a blind woman trying to picture him with her fingers. Once again she shook her head. "I don't know." she said, no pain in her eyes, just inflections in her voice. "He's so beautiful."

Elle nodded with a tiny smile as she watched his chest rise and fall with breath. That he was.

It was then that it hit her. She snapped up her head to stare at Lisabeth with absolute incredulity. "Lis, what were you _thinking?_ We can't keep him in the house! Your mother will find him, and the gods only know what she will do with him! How long have you been keeping him here?"

"A week and a half." Lisabeth answered, unfazed. "I've been feeding him crumbs of the good bread, and I stole the nursing bottle that mother would use to feed me. I've been filling it with warm milk. He's very quiet, and he takes it all just fine. He goes to sleep every day for a few hours around the time we left today, and when he wakes, all you have to do is whistle to him to calm him. Sometimes I even play with him, with my Dachrinemas bells, he like those an awful lot."

Elle could not stop herself from inwardly wondering at her stepsister. Without question or fear, she had accepted this responsibility as if it were meant to be her own. Only thirteen years of age, and she had learned how to take care of an infant with a maturity that rivaled Elle's. Perhaps she even felt a tinge of jealousy at it.

She kept all this emotion out of her face. "That's all well, Lis, but he still can't stay here. Bread can't sustain an infant for long, and I doubt there is anything else in this house that is fit for an infant's mouth."

Lisabeth nodded, and Elle could have sworn that she caught the tiniest bit of grudging in it. "I know." she said, her voice very quiet. "But I didn't want to let him go." Such simple words, but coming from a girl genuine as Lisabeth, they meant so much. Elle did not know what to say. All she could think of doing was hand the boy back to her stepsister, who took him with gentle arms, running her hands through his hair with none of Elle's hesitation.

"I didn't go into this with nothing." Lis continued, ripping her eyes away from the beautiful boy. "I thought that you might take her...to Andrenyi."

Elle raised her eyebrows, then took a deep sigh. She supposed should have seen that coming.

Andrenyi was Elle's godmother, and rumored to be the only third age sorceress left in Vaillere. But no one knew how old Andrenyi was. She was rarely even seen by the Vaillerian public. When she chose to make her presence known, it was either at the funerals for the tomb blessings (and to collect the organs removed prior to the burial) or at the slums searching for the orphaned children wandering the streets. It was common knowledge in the slums of Vaillere that if ever you were alone, a parentless child, you would be found, if you stayed on the streets for only a short amount of time, by Mother Andrenyi, who would keep you safe.

Sorcerers and sorceresses were dwindling in numbers, and many of them like Andrenyi had taken it upon themselves to train what they called "the next generation". But she was different from the others (at least the ones that Elle had heard about from Jack) in the sense that she would offer the children a choice. Andrenyi did not force them to study sorcery in exchange for food and shelter. She became their guardian and mother, and loved each one of them. Elle loved her godmother too. It had been Andrenyi who raised her orphan father, and then named her as Elle's godmother. If it hadn't been for the fact that Andrenyi and Celene weren't that fond of each other (among other reasons), Elle probably would have gone to live with her godmother when her parents died.

"Andrenyi would love him." Elle began slowly. "But she's not even in the Trion right now. She left for Cyrus two weeks ago."

Lisabeth's eyes widened. "When will she be back?"

"Not for another two weeks. She still writes to me."

Lis shook her head. "Elle, she wouldn't leave the towers alone would she?" there was hope in her voice. Real hope. Hope that Elle had never allowed herself to truly have.

Slowly she shook her head. "No." Elle responded, thinking back to Andrenyi's last letter. "No, I think she mentioned leaving it to the care of one of her eldest. I can't recall the name."

"Do you still have the letter?"

"I burn them after I read them."

"Please, just take him. I don't know the way, and I wouldn't let him leave my arms." As soon as the words left her lips, Elle knew they were true. The longer Lis held onto the boy, the longer she wanted to hold onto him. As if reading her stepsister's thoughts, she held him out to Elle, slowly but steadily. "I know he can't stay here."

Elle took the basket, looking down at the sleeping infant. Lisabeth was honest in every way. There was never anything held back or added on. Elle knew her too well to deny her pain. She loved her too much to deny her any wish. She nodded. "I will take him tonight."

Lisabeth's eyes were bright as she jumped to wrap her arms around Elle's shoulders, causing the basket to dig into her stomach. "Thank you, Elle, oh thank you!"

Elle smiled with a bit of strain over her stepsister's shoulder. She had no idea who would be watching over Andrenyi's towers, and Andrenyi was the only sorceress/sorcerer that she gave any damn about. She wasn't fond of the rest of them; she had no patience for magic. The way Elle saw it all; people should be left to deal with their problems with sweat, blood, and tears. Not with charms and fairy dust.

Lisabeth released her from the embrace. Looking down once again at the child, Elle ran her fingers through his hair, trying not to hesitate this time. "Did Regina give him a name?"

Lisabeth's eyes were fixed on the boy as she shook her head. "No," she said quietly. "I did."

Elle felt a gentle smirk tug at her mouth. "What's his name?"

"Corydon. It's an Itoromen name, Fletcher said he had an Itoromen friend with that name killed by the Autanoeran soldiers."

Elle didn't listen past the name. "Corydon," she whispered. The boy turned over in his sleep with a shallow whimper. Lis looked like her heart would break as Elle glance back up at her.

"Lis, someday, when Roberta and Angela are out, I'll show you the way to the towers. You should be able to watch your son grow up."

A glittering tear began to slide its way down Lisabeth's cheek.

* * *

**I am the slowest updater in the history of this website. I'm sorry for taking about half a year! Please don't hurl anything at me!**

**I'm not sure I like the way this chapter ended, it's a bit sappy. Any thoughts on that? I should be updating a bit faster from now on, because I've finally figured out where I want this story to go. **

**About the whole sorcerer thing, I forgot to mention that there is a teensy-weensy bit of fantasy in this story, but it won't be dominant in any way. I'm just like Elle in the sense that, although I love to read about fantasy, I suck at writing it. I have no patience for it.**

**I really want to know what you guys think of this chapter, and especially what you think of Lis and Acton. Especially Acton. I had alot of problems writing him, and I'm still not sure he came out the way I had wanted him to. His relationship with Jack was tough too. It's clear in my head, but I'm not sure I'm describing it right. Lis was easier, but I felt like all of my sentence flow was gone in her section, and I might have lost a little bit of Elle in that section too. Grrr, writing is tough. Life sucks. Yah. **

**Okay, I'm done with my rant now. Thanks for all who reviewed, and J, dearie, I will see you on Monday. Groan. School. Yep, life sucks alright.**

**Hehe. Coxcomb out.**

* * *


End file.
